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Fantasy Lost Glory . [ closed ]

Patchwork pointed out some flyers, and Frey's lips curved into a smile. What a surprise! He hadn't expected this ramshackle village to have any jobs like this. There weren't very many flyers, but he was excited to start working and get some money anyway. He was about to stroll over to them - when the small girl tugged on his sleeve and told him she was going to change.

Frey's gaze traveled to the washroom. "Sure. Be careful," he said as she set off. He decided to keep an eye on that room in case anything less than desirable happened. He didn't want anyone to discover that he was in the company of an undead child.

Occasionally casting glances toward the washroom, he investigated the flyers tacked to a board behind the bar. The man standing at the bar only shot him a cursory look before returning to his own business. Frey scanned the papers; there weren't many of them, and some of the jobs sounded boring and unprofitable, such as taking watch over an individual's house for the night or even finding a lost pet cat. Frey quietly scoffed. What kind of jobs were those?

But then something caught his attention - the name Mirran on one of the flyers. Leaning forward, he read it more closely.

Looking for someone to deliver something to Mirran.
Will offer a payment of 30 gold pieces.
When the item arrives safely to Mirran, the person receiving the package will pay an additional 30 gold.
I WILL know if the package is not delivered safely.
Please look for a tall human man with white hair.

Frey cocked a brow. The whole thing gave him a somewhat uncomfortable vibe. But sixty gold for this job? How could he pass that up? He quickly looked around the tavern, finding exactly what the flyer had described - an older human man, tall, his hair white with age. He was seated at a table surrounded by friends, laughing and eating the tavern's gross-looking food.

With his mind filled with thoughts of gold, Frey tore down the piece of parchment and made his way over to the man with a friendly smile. "Good morning, sir!" he declared cheerily, showing the man the piece of paper. "I'd like to ask you about this job..."

The man looked up from his plate of food, and the conversation he'd been having with his friends faded into silence. The older man nodded curtly. "About time someone wanted to pick up that job. Sit down."

Frey cast a glance back toward the washroom where Patchwork had vanished into, then took a seat at the table.
 
Nodding at Frey's warning to be careful, Patches made her way to the wash room. It wasn't much to loo at, Patches imagined it smelled even worse. It was about the size of a closet, a hole in the ground with a wooden seat over the top acted as the lavatory of sorts.

She crinkled her nose at the structure as she peeled Frey's cloak off and set it on the small table near the "toilet". She folded it up carefully to make sure that it didn't touch the filty ground. She didn't want Frey to get sick from something in here.

She was happy that the new cloak was enchanted to resist filth, because she imagined it's white sheen would've been ruined within moments of entering the room. She pulled the cloak over her head, and ran her fingers over the silky soft material for a few moments.
She'd never owned something so grand before, in fact, Patches had never really owned anything before.
She would've lingred longer had it not been for the knocking, accompanied by a slurred voice.

"Get yer arse out of there!", Patches jumped at the noise and fiddled with the lock on the door. Upon opening it she found a tall, fat lady with far too much makeup on.

She scowled at Patches as she slipped past the woman. Hood up and arms covered, Patches was hidden in plain sight. She spotted Frey seated at a table with an older looking man. Frowning, she walked over to see what was going on.
Frey was holding a flyer, he must've found a job he liked.
Patches pulled up a chair and sat beside the naimar as the two talked.
 
"So what's this job about, exactly?" Frey asked, leaning forward onto the table and lacing his fingers together.

The older man smiled and took a swig of something - it didn't smell like ale; it was far too early in the day for that. It was probably just water. "It's a delivery job," he said. The friends sitting on either side of him around the table stayed silent. They kept to themselves, opting to focus on their grimy-looking food.

Frey raised a brow. "A delivery job? Really? I would have never guessed from looking at the flier!"

The other man laughed at his sarcasm. "Well, there's an organization in Mirran that needs a special tome delivered to them. Here, one moment." He took a bite of his food and fished through a small bag at his side as he chewed. A moment later, he produced a map, and pushed aside some plates (which made his friends complain mildly, but not much else). The white-haired man rolled the map out on the table and pointed to the tiny village they were currently in.

"See this?" he said, tapping his finger on the parchment. "We're here right now."

Frey nodded. "Of course. And here's Mirran," he said, tracing his finger north and indicating a large city on the man's map.

The man opened his mouth to speak - but right then, Patchwork came out from the washroom and found her way to the table. The older man silenced immediately. He sent the child a fairly skeptical glance, but Frey only smiled. "She's with me," he said.

"Ah. Hello," the white-haired man said to the girl kindly. Then he returned his attention to the map. His map was much more detailed and high-quality than Frey's. It made him wonder how expensive it had been, and where he'd gotten it - surely not in this ramshackle village.

"Near the edge of Mirran," the man continued, breaking Frey from his thoughts, "there's a tavern that stands tall, welcoming visitors. It's called The Golden Unicorn. Every night, a man will arrive there to wait for the delivery. He should have a dark, scruffy beard, a long pale scar from his cheek to his chin, and he'll be clad in a deep green cloak. There's a certain question you need to ask him; if he answers correctly, give him the tome, and he'll give you thirty gold pieces. But be warned, I'll know if the tome doesn't get delivered. And I won't be happy." He stared at Frey with narrowed eyes.

The naimar rested his chin in his palm and only smiled. "Don't worry, you can trust me. I'll deliver it. What is this specific question that I need to ask him?"

"I'll only tell you if you're sure you want to take on this job."

Frey cast a glance to the little girl sitting there beside him. "Well, Patch? What do you say?"
 
Patches cocked her head to the side as the man greeted her, people didn't normally pay the girl much attention. Perhaps she looked more approachable with this hood on. Even so, she merely nodded in response to the greeting, and Frey'd words.
She was indeed traveling with the naimar.

It seemed this gentlemen had a job in need of ding, and Frey was interested in completing it. Her eyes moved to the map he spread out on the table, marveling at the fine, detailed illustrations depicted on the parchment.
It was far more detailed than the map Frey possessed, Patches wondered where the man had gotten it. She wondered what the odds of obtaining such a piece for herself were.

The job seemed to be a delivery of sorts, Patches had missed the first half of the conversation but the man mentioned a tome. A tome to be delivered under very specific and odd circumstances.
Patches frowned, this job seemed to be more serious than anything she'd had in mind.
Frey looked to her, asking if she wished to take the task.

That was the only way they'd get to hear the question needed to pass the tome on to the proper person. On the one hand, the job seemed to pay some decent gold, thirty was nothing to sneeze at.
But she sensed an air of danger about the situation, but there would be risk involved in any job they completed.

"I think the money is important, and we are heading to Mirran anyways", she looked to Frey. "Logically, taking this job is a good move".
 
Frey watched as Patchwork seemed to weigh the situation, trying to decide if they should take the job or not. When she agreed, Frey smiled. “Good choice.”

He turned back to face the white-haired man. “All right. We’ll take the job.”

The man nodded. “That’s good to hear.” He paused for a moment, rolling up his detailed map and stuffing it back into the bag at his side. “Now - the question. When you see this green-cloaked man, approach him and ask, 'What is the weather in the mountains like?'. He should reply with 'As cold as the heart of the undead'. If you do not receive this answer, don't give him the tome."

Frey leaned back in his chair. "I understand. I can do that, don't you worry."

"Good." The white-haired man stood up with a smile on his face. He reached into his bag once more and produced a large rectangular package wrapped in off-white cloth. "Here it is. Be very careful with it, and do not lose it."

Frey grinned. "Wonderful. I'd like to set off as soon as possible - I've been lingering in this area long enough." He took the wrapped tome from the man and stuffed it into his own new bag. "So? The gold?"

"Ah. Of course." The older man produced a little drawstring sack that jingled when he handed it to the naimar. "Thirty gold pieces. Feel free to count."

The naimar did just that - and, satisfied that there were thirty real gold pieces in the drawstring bag (he could tell they were real from the engravings on their surfaces and they way they felt in his palm), he decided it was time to set off. "Pleasure doing business with you," Frey said, "and I'll be off now. Patch? You ready to go?"
 
Patches nodded, it was a good choice. It was the most pratical one as well, given they were already heading to Mirran. Maing this delvery wouldn't impede their existing plans in the slightest. Patches did wonder about how much it paid, as well as the organization they would be delivering the tome to.
She listened carefully as their contractor told them the question they'd need to ask to compete the delivery. When the old man gave them the question, she opened her mouth to respond.

As cold as the heart of the undead.

The answer came to her instantly, as if she'd always known it. How that was possible Patches didn't know. She hoped this group wasn't connected to the Temple of the Fallen. She felt like if that were the case, there wouldn't be any need for this code phrase. Patches couldn't shake the sense of familiarity, and she dwelled on it as Frey counted out the coin the old man gave them.

Once the naimar was satisfied that they were properly compensated, it was time to go. Patches slipped off her chair.

"Ready", she looked up to Frey, nodding.
She was curious to meet these people, and curious about the book which they were handing over. Perhaps once they were out of town she could take a closer look at the text.
 
After the white-haired man said goodbye, Frey nodded to him and opened the door, letting himself and Patchwork out of the tavern and into the village. “All right.” He sighed. “I guess it’s off to Mirran now, then.”

He turned his gaze toward the distant mountains. How long would it take to travel through them and then into Mirran? The journey would most likely be long and possibly dangerous.

He thought of the wolf-like undead creatures that had recently attacked them. Where had they come from? Why had they attacked? Would he and Patchwork run into more of them on their travels? He didn’t like that idea very much. He cast a quick glance to the bandaged wound on his arm; he didn’t want any more injuries like it, especially since he’d had to pour holy water on it.

Thinking of holy water reminded him of the issue of Patchwork’s ruined hand. He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his black hair. Where in the world could they get her a new hand to replace the damaged one?

With a frown, he headed north, toward the edge of the village. It didn’t take long to reach. Soon he was away from the busy streets and merchant stalls, and the houses and buildings grew farther apart until there was only open plain ahead of him. In the distance he could see small cottages and large fields of crops; it was a little farming community that was probably connected to the village, and was surely where they got their produce.

“Well,” Frey said, “somehow we still need to find you a new hand.”
 
With the details of the job squared away, it was time to leave. Patches followed the naimar outside, the bright sun made her squint her eyes. She didn’t know how long it was going to take to arrive to their destination, no doubt the journey would be dangerous.

She imagined that there would be more of those infected creatures out there, Patches frowned as she thought of the innocent lives that might be at risk. She didn’t like to think on that… She needed to focus on the task at hand, departing the town and headed for Mirran. She was so focused on this task she’d nearly forgotten about her mangled hand.

Frey lead the way to the outskirts of the town, they headed north toward the mountains.
It was as cold as the heart of the undead there…
She was snapped from her thoughts as Frey spoke. She glanced down to the hand in question, the tips of her fingers were all that peeked out from under the cloak.

That was good, it kept the deformity hidden.

“Indeed…a new hand will be necessary. That, or a skin patch…”. She didn’t know where they could acquire either one of these outside of a grave yard.
A typical healer wouldn’t do them much good, plus that would cost them coin. Patches didn’t want Frey wasting his hard earned gold on her.
“I can wait, the hand does not bother me…and my cloak can keep it covered”.
 
Frey bit his lip as he pondered what to do. Grave robbing felt very morally wrong, even for him - but he wasn’t opposed to it entirely. The main issue was where to find a body fresh enough to chop off its hand and give it to Patchwork.

He sighed deeply and shrugged. “We’ll figure something out eventually.” Since she was undead, Frey hoped the injury wouldn’t start to bother her, and that they’d have plenty of time to somehow find her a new hand.

He strode forward at a decent pace. There was a path leading out of the village and toward the mountains. The trail wound through the fields of tall, swaying crops he’d seen earlier, with cottages dotted along it at even intervals. It might take a while to traverse the farmlands. Probably a couple hours, if he kept up his current pace.

As his boots stepped rhythmically on the dirt path, he found himself wishing he’d purchased a cheap horse or something. He’d had a couple horses before, and lost both of them. The first one had sprinted off when he’d suddenly been attacked by a troll, and he’d never seen that horse again. The second one had been killed by an arrow when an angry mob had attacked Frey after he stole something important from their town.

He frowned. He wasn’t very good at protecting anyone but himself. Casting a glance to Patchwork, he wondered if he’d be able to protect her on the journey to Mirran.
 
Patches felt that desecrating a grave simply to replace her hand was wrong. It was unfair to the spirit of whomever had passed. Besides, Patches didn’t know where they could find a body fresh enough to replace her skeletal limb. Most bodies likely matched her as far as decomposition went.

She concluded that for the time being, she was better off keeping the limb hidden, thanks to her new cloak this wouldn’t be too difficult. Perhaps she could wrap it as well, so if for some reason a stranger caught a glimpse, they wouldn’t be seeing bone.

Frey was right, they would figure it out eventually, now it wasn’t the most important task at hand. Patches wanted to make sure that they accomplished the task that had been given to them. She was curious about the tomb that they’d been asked to deliver, she wondered what secrets it held.

She looked up at Frey curiously.

“Do you think it would be bad form to look at the tomb we’ve been given?”.

She couldn’t explain why, but she possessed an innate curiosity regarding the potential magic in the text.
 
Frey enjoyed the beautiful surroundings as he walked. The fields of growing crops were scenic. But he had to admit that, after a while, he started feeling a bit bored. It would take a while to make their way up into the mountains, and he kept wishing he'd just bought a cheap horse to help their journey along. He wondered if there was somewhere on the way to Mirran that he could buy one.

As he was about to reach into his bag to pull out a map, Patchwork asked about the tome. His mismatched eyes flicked to hers. "Hmm, I don't know," he said with lips pressed into a line. "They might not like us reading their tome, but hey, they're not here to see, right?" With something of a small smirk, he produced the tome from his bag.

It was still wrapped cloth. Frey handed it to Patchwork, watching her closely, curious what would be behind the wrappings. Would he even be able to understand the mysterious book? Or would it be written in some kind of magical language he didn't know?

"Can you walk and read at the same time?" he asked. "I'm curious about that thing, but we should be making progress too." He glanced to the north, and the blue skies overhead. It was still early enough in the day that they wouldn't need to stress about where to set up camp for the night any time soon, but he didn't want to loiter.
 
Patches looked to the tome as Frey pulled it from his bag. The naimar was right, the guild they were delivering this text to might not want them reading the text. But as he said, they were not present to see them, and Patches would be extra careful. She could smell the sweet scent of aged paper from where she stood, and her gut told her that this text ought to be handled with care.

She reached out and took the wrapped text. It was a rather weighty tome, and it was wrapped simply in some brown cloth. The cloth was worn and tattered, a sign that it was old. Patches wondered where this book had come from, and how it came to be in the hands of the old man who’d hired them.

“I can move and read”, she spoke softly as she unwrapped the cover. “I will not slow you down”.

She continued unwrapping the book, allowing the excess to trail on the ground as she walked. Given it was tattered already, Patches saw no issue with this. Soon enough she’d revealed the text in question.

It was an old, weathered text, the cover was a faded shade of black, with several nicks and dents in the cover. There was a gold trim which outlined the cover, spine and back of the book. The text that was once present had faded so badly that only a few snippets of the letters could be seen.

The text wasn’t in Common, the language shared by all races, but Patches found she could read it.

Respite.

That was the only word she could somewhat make out. The first word was too far gone.

“I cannot read the first word, but the second one is Respite”, she spoke, looking up to Frey. Back to the text, she carefully opened the book, holding it with her good hand while turning the front cover with her boney one.
 
Frey smiled at her when she promised she wouldn't slow him down. He glanced to her while he walked, watching as she peeled the covering away from the tome and studied it with seeming curiosity. The little girl was kind of adorable - despite the fact she was undead.

"Respite?" Frey kept stealing quick looks at the tome as he walked. It was definitely in a strange language he couldn't read. "What's it about? Any magic spells to teleport us to the mountains?" He smiled to himself. If only! He was accustomed to walking, since his travels forced him to do so much of it, but he still wished their journey could go a little bit faster.

As he walked, he kept his attention divided between Patchwork, the tome, and the path ahead of them. They'd already walked past a few little cottages on the farmlands, and Frey occasionally spotted someone working out in their fields of crops. These people paid the travelers no heed as they passed by.

He glanced to the sky and noticed a few clouds gathering farther in the north. It meant they might run into a storm eventually, but he hoped it would pass before it reached them.
 
Patches shook her head.
"I see no teleportation spells, though I will inform you if I find any", she flipped through the first couple pages, carefully to avoid damaging the aged text.
"It seems like this is a necromancy tomb, this chapter seems to be talking about the various uses of body parts as spell components. Not just human either".
Though her tone was as flat as ever, there was a small, excited light in her eyes. Perhaps this book could shed some light on her own undead condition. After all, Patches had no memories as to where she came from. Maybe that was because she'd been created, not born.

She was so interested in her reading that she didn't really notice the passing scenery. The pair were going to be traveling for some time, crossing the mountain range would be challenging as well. But it would also give Patches more time to look through this book. She flipped a few pages at a time, skipping over more sections which broke down the usage of body parts in spells.
This information was interesting, but didn't explain how one might create a sentient being from death.

She wanted to know why she was here, how it was that she could exist. Was she supposed to be like this, or was she the result of some necromancer's defective spell.
She was more interested than ever in meeting the people who wanted this book.


What she was reading should've been far more alarming than Patches found it to be.
"This books speaks of dangerous magic, we ought to be wary when handing it over", she glanced to Frey.
 
Frey sighed. He'd figured as much, of course, but having some kind of teleportation spell would be nice.

As Patchwork continued to talk about the tome, he glanced to her with a raised brow, and frowned. It did not sound like a pleasant book. But the undead girl seemed excited about it. He wondered to himself if there was anything written there that could help Patchwork restore her limb without resorting to grave-robbing.

She mentioned it was full of dangerous magic, and Frey nodded slowly. "I'm a little worried about it now," he admitted. "I just hope nothing unpleasant will happen to us when we deliver it."

They continued their journey, and soon reached the end of the rolling fields of crops. Before them stretched a long plain occasionally dotted with bushes and plants. In the distance stood a forest of large, leafy trees, with the narrow path winding through it. Far beyond the forest, the mountains reached high into the heavens. It would take a while to reach them.
 
"So long as this book remains in the correct hands, I think things will be fine", she continued without looking up from her book.
"I do think we should ensure it stays out of the Temple of the Fallen's hands, but that is more of a gut feeling". She glanced up to Frey. "It isn't based on any sort of logic, other than every instinct I possess tells me this ought to stay far from them. Such feelings are... strange to me. To feel so certain of something, without any supporting evidence, it is odd".

She flipped to the next page and her eyes lit up.
"This spell seems to indicate that the undead can be regenerated...perhaps I can use it to fix my hand".
She held the book close to her face as she scanned the details.

"It would require a few ingrediants, including a sample of the flesh in question...and devil's tongue", she frowned. "...I have never heard of anything by that name before...".

Perhaps the spell would be out of the question.
"I assume it might be some sort of plant...have you heard of it before?", she looked to Frey questioningly.
 
But what if the people they delivered it to used the tome improperly? Frey decided he didn't care. As long as he got payment for his troubles and wasn't dragged into anything too dangerous, it was none of his business whose hands the book landed in.

When Patchwork spoke of the Temple of the Fallen, Frey found his thoughts drifting back to that woman he'd met in the marsh - the one who claimed to be from the Temple. His lips curved into a frown. He'd gotten a strange and unpleasant feeling from that entire encounter, and the more he considered it, the less he ever wanted to come in contact with people of the Temple again.

He was broken from his thoughts when the little girl mentioned fixing her hand. His gaze flicked to hers, and he smiled. "A spell to regenerate you? Good. I wasn't really looking forward to the thought of grave-robbing."

Devil's tongue... what a familiar name. He idly scratched his cheek in thought. "Hmm. I think it's a type of plant that grows in warmer climates. Unfortunately, I don't know where a warm climate is around here, considering we're heading north. We might find some to the west or south... but taking that big of a detour right now would be a pain." He pursed his lips. "Maybe we'll find some at a market or from a merchant along the way?"
 
She frowned.
"...But purchasing it would require money...And you already spent a lot on this cloak", she flared out her arms, mainly because she liked how light and flowy the sleeves felt.

She'd been hoping that she'd be able to find the spell components in the wild, so she wouldn't have to make Frey buy her more things.
Perhaps she should find a way to make her own money...though she wasn't sure how that would be possible given her undead status.

"I will look through the book and see what other spells might assist me", she looked back down to the faded pages. Much of the book's text seemed to deal with ancient rituals, the results of which would be less than desirable for the average person.
They dealt with the raising of the dead, and the art of dismissing such magic.

In fact, the more she read, the more she realized that these spells were dealing with the art of combating with necromancy and it's adverse effects. This book could pose a serious hindered to say a maniacal mage looking to raise an undead army.
But in the wrong hands, it could also help raise one.
It was a double edged sword.

The pair walked for a while longer, leaving behind the small town and the farms in favor of rolling hills.
It was beautiful in it's own right, despite how empty that the fields were.
 
Frey considered her words. He had definitely spent a lot on the cloak, and wasn’t sure how much more he could afford. But they were doing a job that would pay well, so he’d probably have some extra money to buy devil’s tongue for Patchwork. He couldn’t imagine it would be too pricey.

“This job pays well,” he told her. “Don’t worry about it.”

She kept looking through the book as they walked. Frey stopped for just a moment to cast one final glance behind him, seeing the small village in the distance with all the rolling farmlands behind him. The sun had traveled far into the sky, and sunset might be coming in an hour or so.

He returned his attention to the path ahead and began walking again. He wasn’t sure if they’d make it to the forest before nightfall. Did they want to camp under the trees, or in the rolling fields? He’d feel exposed in these fields, but he supposed it wouldn’t be so bad if they set up camp behind one of the many bushes dotting the landscape.

The sun sank steadily as they traveled. It wasn’t long before pink and gold streaked the sky, and the sun hid partially behind the horizon to their west. Frey noticed a particularly large bush. “We should probably set up camp there,” he said.
 
Patches was still hesitant to ask for much more, even if it didn’t cost a lot of money. Given she didn’t do any work to bring in an income, she shouldn’t be spending a lot of the money. Frey was the one who had accepted this job, Patches was just tagging along. She was grateful for the company, as she didn’t know what she’d do if she was by herself.

Her attention was split between the pages of the spell book and watching the road, she stumbled a few times as she wasn’t paying much attention and had tripped over a partially concealed log or rock.

She managed to stay on her feet though, and continued flipping through the book, searching for spells she felt might be helpful to their journey.

She found a small section that was based around healing magic she found interesting. As Frey announced he wished to make camp for the night, Patches spoke.

“I found a chapter on some healing spells. Though might be useful”.
 
Frey set up his blanket and got ready to sleep for the night. He looked at Patchwork when she spoke, and smiled a bit. "Healing spells? That does sound useful." He wandered toward her and peeked over her shoulder at the tome - not that he could read it.

"Do you know how to do magic? I don't." He wondered what the healing spells could do and how much they could help. Would he or Patchwork even be able to perform a spell?

Frey admittedly didn't know much about magic. He and the rest of his kind were born with unnatural strength, and that was about it. Not many of them studied magic or spell-casting. They grew up with the magical strength that had been granted to them and never really tried to broaden their horizons.
 
Patches tilted the pages so Frey could read it. After a second, she realized that he probably couldn’t read this text at all.

She cocked her head to the side at his question. “I…believe I can. I feel as though I should. I think my threads are a kind of magic…”.

She couldn’t really explain it, but she felt a natural kinship with spells. She looked back to the page, committing the healing spell to memory.

“Should you become injured, this spell should be able to treat the injury, no matter how severe”.

She pulled the book closer to her face and squinted at some small print.

“The more severe the injury, the longer it takes to heal”. That would be important information, just in case Frey, or potentially another innocent, found themselves injured.

“Ideally I will not have to use such a spell. But should the need rise, I can be useful”.
 
Frey shifted his weight as he tried to study the tome in her hands, but it was no use. He had no idea what kind of language the book was written in. He couldn't make heads or tails of the characters scrawled on the pages. Besides, it was getting dark enough that it would be difficult to read anything at all.

He turned to his makeshift camp and produced his water canteen, taking a sip, then popped a bit of jerky in his mouth. Around his mouthful of dried meat, he said, "That sounds useful indeed. Does the spell sap your energy or something?"

He thought about the wound he'd sustained from fighting the zombie-like wolves just a little bit ago. It would be nice to have that gash completely gone and not have to worry about it, but he didn't want Patchwork pushing herself if it would hurt her.
 
Patches wasn’t sure how it would work exactly, but it probably would absorb some kind of energy from her.

“I think that it will require some kind of energy, I’m not entirely sure what though”, she thought for a moment.

“I will practice with some of the spells and see how they react”.

She hoped that she could use the spells, as she wanted to be useful to Frey. As night fell though and the light faded, it became harder for her to make out the text on the pages.

“Right then”, she closed the book. “It is time for sleep…”, she looked to Frey.

“Well, for you at least”. She carefully wrapped the book back in the cloth it had come in. She wanted to ensure that they delivered the book in the same condition they’d received it in.

“I will keep watch”, she readjusted her sitting position so that she was sitting on her knees, with her hands folded over her lap.

It was a cool, quiet evening, and was shaping up for a peaceful night.
 
Frey nodded slowly. "Practicing sounds like a good idea. As long as you don't accidentally set anything on fire." He sent her a quick smile before sitting down on the ground, cross-legged, atop his blanket.

It was late by now. The moon hung on the horizon, and stars glittered in the black sky. Frey craned his neck to look at them, enjoying the way they sparkled. "Thanks for taking watch," he said, curling under his blanket and pulling it up around his shoulders. He kept his eyes on the stars and thought about their journey. How much longer might it take? What would they find on their travels? Hopefully nothing too exciting.

As he stared into the sky, he found himself drifting slowly off to sleep. He didn't fight it. Casting one last tired glance to the undead child keeping watch, he closed his eyes and fell into a comfortable, dreamless slumber.
 

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